


Easy

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: And he enjoys it more than he should, Confused Athos, F/M, Milady just does things to him, Milathos Appreciation Week, milathos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being with her shouldn't be this easy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy

It shouldn’t be so easy.

It _should_ be impossible, or at least damn near it. After all the hurt they’ve caused each other, the times they’ve _tried to kill each other_ , the damage and the bitterness and the rage and the guilt they’ve heaped upon each other–

It shouldn’t be this easy.

And yet …

He knows d’Artagnan disapproves ( _she’d tried to kill Constance, too_ ), knows Treville disapproves and worries ( _how many times has the captain watched him stumbling, or carried, back to the garrison, drunk, because of her?_ ), knows Porthos and Aramis disapprove, worry and despair ( _she’s tried to kill them, tried to kill **him** , and they’re the ones who’ve carried him home, who’ve worked to put the pieces back together_). He can see it in all their eyes, can feel it seething in the air around them.

And he shares it. He worries, too. Because it shouldn’t be this easy. He should have more difficulty with this than _any_ of them, because it was _him_ she broke into pieces, and he who made _her_ the creature they all distrust – hate – now. And if their history is any guide, at any moment they’ll have blades out and shoved against each other’s throats, hissing threats and snarling accusations, spitting out all the poison they have poured into each other over the years.

No wonder they’re all looking at him as if he finally _has_ gone mad.

Because it shouldn’t be this easy.

And yet it is.

So easy for him to follow her as she leads them through the tunnels of the palace, so easy to read the flickers of thought and calculation that dart across her face, so easy to anticipate her movements and actions.

So easy to share a brief, momentary look with her and hear an entire conversation in his mind.

He’d forgotten – made himself forget – how well they’d known each other once, even if he hadn’t really known her at all. Had forgotten that, once, being with her was the easiest thing in the world, easier even than breathing. When breathing hadn’t mattered unless it was _her_ he was breathing in.

He breathes now, in the dank, stale darkness of the tunnels, and smells only jasmine.

She turns to him, a slim dark brow arching slightly, and in the green of her eyes he can see a field of grass where he’d lain her, lain _with_ her, his whole world shrunk down to the feel of her warmth and softness against him. Around him.

He must have made some sound, some movement, because Aramis’ hand is suddenly at his back, offering comfort, support, strength. It comes as something of a shock to realize he doesn’t really need it. That he is strangely all right.

That this is all much easier than he has any right or reason to expect.

She turns away and leads off again, and he follows. They make their way into the palace, dispatch the Red Guards who would stop them, get to the Queen. And Constance.

Constance doesn’t understand either, adds _anger_ and a fair bit of disgust to disapproval and worry ( _ **she’s** helping us now? _ ), and he knows he’ll have to explain later. At length. Probably on his knees. May even have to accept one of the slaps she usually reserves for Aramis.

But all that is for later. _Now_ they are hustling the Queen to safety, d’Artagnan is trying to persuade Constance to come with them–

And _he_ is making his way to _her_ , the scent of jasmine and the memory of sun-warmed grass – _she wore forget-me-nots wound through her hair_ – pulling him forward.

_Will you be safe?_

_No one’s looking for me. Just get the Queen to safety._

Perhaps it should bother him more that she’s so nonchalant about disposing of bodies. At the moment, though, he’s merely grateful.

Perhaps that should bother him, too.

Then again, _all_ of this should bother him, should be driving nails through his mind and heart, should have him already planning his next desperate dive into the nearest tavern’s wine supply.

It _shouldn’t_ be this easy.

They get the Queen down to where the horses are waiting, and _he_ steps abruptly in front of Aramis to help her onto one. He’d failed to keep Aramis from touching her once before, and now their world was collapsing. Aramis might not learn from mistakes, but _he_ does.

Except for the mistake waiting for him in the tunnels. Apparently he’s incapable of learning from that one.

And now he’s going back down to make it again.

He’ll deserve Constance’s slap when it comes.

He only realizes he’s completely forgotten about Catherine – _again_ – when he has to save Anne from her, when he has to stand before her tears and rage and contempt, when he adds her name – _again_ – to the list of victims he and Anne have claimed.

Whether Thomas’ name will remain on that list is a question for another day. But he knows now that desperate dive into drunkenness _is_ coming, that he will not be able to face the ugly truth about his beloved younger brother without it.

_Do you still maintain that my brother tried to rape you?_

_Why would I lie about that?_

_You lied about **everything!** _

Except that she hadn’t. And he’d been too stupid, too proud, too hurt, to see it.

_Thomas had done this to them. Not Anne._

Perhaps he should _ask_ Constance to slap him …

He breathes in her jasmine again, then forcibly tears himself away.

That _isn’t_ so easy.

But they still have work to do, and he is acutely conscious of her nearness as they do it. Rochefort’s sudden appearance serves only as _something_ of a distraction. Hiding in the cardinal’s cupboard, awaiting – expecting – discovery and death, he is still much too aware of her, his every nerve singing, straining, _burning_ from her nearness.

And suddenly it’s too much. Rochefort is gone and all at once she’s in his arms, arching into him as he crushes her to him, his mouth diving into hers as his world shrinks again. Nothing matters, nothing _exists_ , except her, the feel and scent and _taste_ of her, the sheer _need_ that six years of guilt and shame and rage and drink have done _nothing_ to diminish.

Outside these walls the world is ending, collapsing into rubble and ruin and taking with it everything, every _one_ , he has come to depend upon for his salvation. Yet just now, for just this moment, all he cares about, all he _knows_ , is the woman in his arms, the woman he’d sworn was his damnation.

One day, he knows, he will have to make a choice. Salvation. Damnation. Them. Her.

It might well kill him.

But that’s for tomorrow. Tonight, _now_ , he is alive. They are together.

And for these few, brief moments, it is the easiest thing he’s ever known.

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Milathos Appreciation Week on Tumblr, Day 5: Together  
> Takes place during the S2 ep, _The Accused_  
>  Look at this, they've made me love Milady.


End file.
